


love me dead

by orphan_account



Category: Kagerou Project
Genre: Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Other, Suicide, as in. his throat wound. while he's dying. okay, hints at past onesided shinaya, uhm. kuroha fucks shintaro in the throat basically
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 09:07:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3244067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been two years today since she died. Now it's his turn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	love me dead

**Author's Note:**

> hello again kagepro fandom it's been a while since anyone's written something supremely trashy and fucked up so i'm here to deliver with trash hell.docx
> 
> what's better than this, Chiropter being problematic

In the end, it's so easy it feels like a dream.

 

Hell knows why he does it. Shintaro just needs to be alone today, needs space enough to grieve, at least. Most days, standing up to hobble to his computer is enough of an effort. Today he has to force himself to even breathe.

 

The infection on his computer doesn’t seem to get it, of course.

 

Well- maybe it’s partly his fault, for telling her to shut up constantly anyway- like the boy who cried wolf, he's dug his own grave. In honesty, her pestering is a comfort any other time, and at least their bickering has stopped his voice cracking from lack of use. It's not like she knows, either. He's never told her much about Ayano. The date means nothing to her except another long twelve hours begging the heap of flesh and clothes called Shintaro Kisaragi to eat, wash, at the very least reach for the week-old cola bottle under his bed. In her little pixelated world, the days must blend into one; Shintaro lying sprawled on his mattress, the hoodie he's been wearing for more than a week now sticking to his skin whenever he shifts or turns, drenched in sweat and blood and other things. For maybe ten minutes, four or five times an hour, incessant chatter buzzes through his ears, mingling with the faint cries of cicadas outside somewhere. He closes his eyes.

 

"Get up, master!"

 

_A girl with black hair, in the seat across the aisle._

 

"Come on, rise and shine! Don't you want to check your email? I'm gonna read it if you don't..."

 

_She's grown somewhat. Even though they're sitting down, he can see that she's taller now, and her hair's grown out a bit, tied back in a messy ponytail. She turns to him, and her smile seems to fit her face better than it used to._

 

"Well, okay, let's see! First your personal emails, fufufu. Ah, what's this one? A subscription to a hentai site!? Ehh! Master is so rotten!"

 

_Hesitantly, he finds himself smiling back. This eighteen-year-old Ayano is more beautiful than ever, but all his nerves and awkwardness have evaporated with the simple relief of her existence. He helped her, that day she was crying. He walked her home and everything was alright again._

 

“Umm… oh, master, really? I think this one actually thinks you’re a dirty old man- look, they sent you an ad about ‘pleasure for older gents’…”

_Ene’s voice is nothing, just cicada song. Neither he nor Ayano pay it any attention as they grin at each other, and Ayano takes out some paper._

 

“Ew, I’m just weirded out, now. I’m gonna hit up your journal, okay?”

 

_The way her hands move as she folds it is captivating, and he wonders, not for the first time, if he might love her. Pale skin brushes lightly over paper-white, warps the printed lines into the feathers of wings._

 

“You haven’t updated in ages, master!”

 

_Her words appear as messy pencil scrawls on the paper crane, and Shintaro shakes his head a fraction, irritated that they’ve made it in. Of course he hasn’t; not since she came, and this is why. Not in a year._

_In his daydream, he frowns, and Ayano laughs in Ene’s high-pitched voice._

 

“What is this? Poetry?”

 

His eyes snap open.

 

‘Shut up’ might have been enough, with that look on his face, but he finds himself getting to his feet, crossing unsteadily to his desk. Ene brightens visibly, and he notes that she hasn’t even opened his email program. He doesn’t care. He has nothing on his mind except Ayano, and he won’t let a computer program tarnish her.  He opens the system files and her smile drops slightly.

 

“…Master?”

 

It takes a while to find her. The file’s well hidden, under a rare file extension and a string of meaningless letters somewhere at the back of the computer. She tries to stop him, tries to grab the cursor and force it away, but he rams it into her body, flinging her to the other side of the screen. By the time he reaches the folder her data is in, she’s resorted to desperate pleading.

 

He etches her distraught, frenzied face into his mind, and clicks ‘delete’.

 

Her eyes flicker into something deeply sad as her tiny body glitches out of existence, and then there's no sound except the gentle whirr of his hard drive, slow and lazy in the stinking heat of his room.

 

For a while, he stays slumped in his chair, staring at the screen as his mind works to process what he’s done. Then, giddy and outside himself, he stands. The world is edged with a pleasant fog, and his ears ring with total, drowning silence as he stumbles back to his bed.

 

He can’t remember the last time he cried, really _cried-_ but his eyes itch and sting, and, when he tries to blink away the discomfort, hot, salty water burns trails down his cheeks.

 

_I’m a murderer._

He already was, though, wasn’t he? What was it, if not murder, when he left his only friend to cry alone in an empty classroom without so much as a greeting?  What was it when he let two heads, made small against the expanse of blue around them, dip beneath the waves and fall from view that day? This is only one more name to paint on the headstones, another body to fill the mass grave in his head. Will she land by Takane? Or will she lie with Haruka? Will Ayano’s ghost be there to sing her to sleep?

 

Shintaro has always been neutral, when it comes to a stance on the death penalty.  Let villains and judges do what they do best, and leave it to the courts to make a wrong decision. Yet now- he sees the simple brilliance of it.

 

 Something in his brain clicks decisively, like a light going off.

 

Scissors are all he can think of. He keeps a good, sharp pair in a drawer beside his bed, uses it to scratch meaningless lines onto his unwashed body as if they might scrape the filth from him. When he’s considered this before, he imagined pills, or a bathtub filled with cold water; but in the end, it’s more fitting to die here, in this room, slowly and brutally and by his own hand.

 

As he lifts the blade, a dark and rotten part of him hopes his mother will cry at his funeral.

 

It sinks through his skin as if plunging into mud. He expected it to take more than that, somehow- slicing his arms open always takes a while, a few strokes at least- but his neck is tender and the skin breaks easily. Pushing the blade further in is a struggle, as his body begins to jerk into action, doing everything it can to stop his hands, but he soldiers on, relentless, digging for an artery. He finds himself taking a vague, scientific interest in the anatomy of his throat. The pain is so intense that it may as well be blending into one, but nonetheless he can pick out different patches and waves of it when he moves the scissors side to side or opens them to stretch the wound- there, he thinks he tore his vocal cords, and there, the blade glanced off the side of his Adam’s apple. His hands start to shake too violently to contain, and the scissors drop from his fingers. A bubble of blood leaves his lips with a croak.

 

And then- as he falls backwards- the ceiling warps, and opens its mouth.

 

He thinks at first that it’s showing him Hell, but he’s never heard anything about Hell opening in a dying boy’s bedroom, or about it twisting, black and gigantic, into the form of a snake. The snake only stays for a split second. By the time it lands on his carpet, it’s already taken the form of a man. One he recognises.

 

His lips work furiously as he tries to mouth:

 

“Konoha?”

 

The man- or snake?- straightens up. From what he can see at this angle, it really does look like Konoha; but its hair is stained black, and it’s dressed in startling shades of grey and yellow. Shintaro is reminded distinctly of the stripes on a wasp. A warning sign, set on soft fabric.

 

It might be his brain failing him, but when it speaks, its words make no sense:

 

"Ah, ah, Shintaro. You ruined things again, you know. And I'm bored now until the next game, so..." the snake grins nastily, "shall we make my personal entertainment your first, and last, contribution to this world?"

 

It crosses the room in a single, animalistic bound, crouching at the end of the bed like something feral. Shintaro can feel blood trickling past his lips as he tries to smile. No matter who or what this is, there's nothing anyone can do to or for him, now- in a few minutes, he'll fall asleep forever.

 

But the snake smiles right back. Its black tongue swipes around Konoha's lips, nibbles the edges of them as if in deep thought. It's sizing up a piece of prey, Shintaro realises dimly, and he’s got half a mind to laugh at it for picking at carrion.

 

He doesn't understand what's happening when it grabs his face, digs black nails into his bloodstained cheeks. Its hands are clumsy and everywhere, clawing and grabbing and pulling as if it doesn't know how to use them, and he can feel hot breath on his skin. He tries to squirm away (because being this close to someone is new and uncomfortable and weird) but it grips his sides and digs its nails in deeply, holding him in place as if his neck wound wasn't pinning him there already. It seems pointless, anyway, because a moment later its weight lifts and it draws back a little. His mind is too foggy to process that it's ripping off its clothing; he thinks at first that it's shedding its skin. He squints, trying to dispel some of the fuzziness clouding his vision.

 

He still can't see it perfectly, but the strange, breathless laughter that's coming from the snake in bouts suits its lazy crouch somehow. Accompanying the laughter is the sound of something slick, and after a moment Shintaro realizes that it's Konoha's hand, pressed between his legs and moving in time with the laughter of his possessor. For the first time since he raised the scissors to his throat, fear courses through him.

 

The snake pulls its hand away with a satisfied hiss. Shintaro tried to back away as it crawls towards him, but his heart's beating blood out of his body faster and faster, rendering him incapable of anything but weak and jagged movement. It notices and slows down somewhat, kissing his hands as it slides its own up his torso, apparently savouring the chance to mock him with tenderness. He can feel the heat of Konoha's cock pressed against his stomach, thick and solid and slightly curved, can feel the weight of his balls through his clothing as the snake moves up his body to shower the top of his head with kisses.

 

"That didn't take long at all, did it?" It murmurs in his ear. "This body is so much _fun_." It presses a final kiss to his scalp and raises itself up to look at him, eyes brimming with yellow madness. "And it can last a long, long time. The question is- how about you?"

 

He expects it to remove his clothing, but it doesn’t, instead yanking his hoodie down further around the collar, inspecting the gash he made. It bends down, and, oh-so-gently, presses a tiny kiss to the centre of it, sending his body into another series of pained convulsions.

 

“ _Stop_ ,” he tries to say, “ _let go_.” The most he manages is a frightened whisper, and the snake shushes it with a kiss on the lips.

 

Then it grabs his chin. Tips his head back. Its body is moving again, upwards, pressing against him and leaving smears of white-grey among the bloodstains.  Shintaro starts to tremble violently. Surely- surely it’s not about to do what he suddenly feels, with creeping horror, it intends to- and it stops, position odd and skewed, and Konoha’s lean stomach is inches from his eyes. Warm flesh pokes at the still-bleeding stab wound, stained with beads of precum that sting like fire, and he spasms, mouth opening in a silent plea.

 

With a jerk of its stolen hips, it pushes into his throat.

 

The pain is indescribable. He gags and thrashes as his body works furiously to push the foreign object out, biting down on his own tongue hard enough that it bleeds- but the snake just laughs, sliding in deeper. The underside of its shaft squeezes past his thyroid gland and he almost passes out. He feels what’s left of his- superior thyroid artery, it must be- _rip_ , and his eyes roll back in his head. The snake pulls out, then thrusts in again. Tears spill helplessly from Shintaro’s  eyes and from beyond it, somewhere, he hears a voice filled with mirth:

 

“In some ways, the folds of the vocal cords are almost like those of the labia- if you ever get a chance to do this, next time, you really should try it. You’ve seen enough dead bodies, after all…”

 

Konoha’s hand reaches down to fist Shintaro’s hair, force his head further backwards to bury his dick to the hilt. It punctures through to his carotid artery and Shintaro’s body spasms violently, blood and chunks of- whatever else- spraying from his mouth. His tongue sticks out uncontrollably. The urge to gag or vomit overwhelms him, hit by wave after wave of choking nausea unable to pass the obstruction of his windpipe.  He feels something tear as he tries to bite, jaw working furiously, stuttering and halting like a broken machine, and now the curve of Konoha’s cock is working around his tongue from underneath, veins scraping against his tonsils as the tip pushes out into his mouth. The smell and taste of blood is more concentrated now than anything he’s ever known and he lets it wash over his being, unable to even close his eyes and scream.

 

He’s dizzy. So, so, dizzy, and so, so tired. It barely registers when white spatters his tongue and dribbles from his mouth. Even the pain of it is dull, somehow detached from him and not his any longer. With intense relief, he realises that, at last, he might be about to die.

 

He tries to smile as his heart stutters and fails. He hopes that Ene will reprimand him, if he somehow ends up seeing her in the afterlife.  He hopes that Ayano will forgive him.

 

He hopes the semen won’t come up on his autopsy report.

**Author's Note:**

> i chose to end this as shintaro dies rather than expand on it any further or explain anything because there's going to be a second chapter. involving haruka and necrophilia. i'll add the warnings for that when it comes to it. i'm so sorry
> 
> also re: throat anatomy... i really did try but i got a lot wrong i believe. i'm a humanities student not a scientist j-just pretend it's all fine i mean SNAKE GODS right?? orz
> 
> 2017 update: orphaned and abandoned forever because as much as i love having written the fandom's worst fic it's also just utterly disgusting and i hate who i was 2 years ago. bye


End file.
